Hi collaborator,

The other morning, Muggins and I set out for a walk with Tom’s mom, Phyllis, who had spent the night. As we stepped outside, we spotted Brian and Debbie with their dogs, Freckles and Bodie. My heart lifted with excitement—it had been a while since we'd seen them. Muggins stood calmly by my side, not pulling or barking, just waiting.

I placed a treat on the ground. Muggins ate it, glanced at the approaching friends, and then looked back at me. We repeated this quiet exchange while I introduced Phyllis to Brian and Debbie. Soon, Muggins could no longer resist. They leapt over to touch noses with Bodie but immediately returned to me, calm as ever. We continued walking all together, catching up on neighborhood gossip and enjoying the red-winged blackbirds singing in the marsh.

A few years ago, this would have been impossible. The sensory overload of a houseguest would’ve kept me up all night. The sight of approaching walkers would’ve triggered panic. Managing both Muggins and the social dance of introducing unfamiliar friends would’ve been too much, and I would’ve retreated into a shame-filled isolation.

So, what changed? It wasn’t Muggins—it was me.

Sure, Muggins has learned some skills, and behavioral meds have helped, but those alone wouldn’t have allowed me to handle all the sensory and social demands of that morning.

I had to build skills within myself—learn how to track my own capacity, set boundaries, and ask for help. I had to learn to tend to my needs, nourish my nervous system, and communicate clearly with both Muggins and others.

I had to learn how to take care of myself, so that I could fully show up for us.

And in doing so, I’ve created the space for the authentic connection I’ve always longed for.